Instead of telling you, "You'll be all right"
I'm just gonna be that someone by your side
Yeah, let me be that distant satellite
A constant in the sky
'Cause I'm standing with you tonight
Yeah, I will be that voice in your ear
Quietly destroying your fear
You won't even know that I'm here
But I'm standing with you tonight
- "Standing with You" by Guy Sebastian
Steve sat in his car in the dimly-lit parking garage, staring at the key in the ignition. It felt like it would take an unbearable effort to reach out and turn the engine on. And even more to drive all the way back to the Avengers headquarters...without Bucky in the seat beside him.
He couldn't dredge up the energy to put his phone away. He still held it loosely in his hand, from when he'd taken it out to call Sam and tell him what had happened. He couldn't even remember what either of them had said, besides a vague notion that Sam had been trying to hide his disappointment and sound encouraging instead.
With a heavy sigh, Steve closed his eyes and tipped his head back against the headrest. What would Bucky say if he were here? C'mon, Stevie. What, you're giving up already? It's not like you to stay down after the first punch.
"Yeah," he muttered to the depressingly silent, empty car. "You're right. Sorry, Buck. I'm not doing any good in here."
Halfway through putting his phone back in his pocket, it vibrated with a text alert. Steve unlocked the screen to find a text from a number he didn't recognize.
Hi, this is Sharon, it said, followed by a waving hand emoji.
Steve's heart did a feeble sort of flip-flop as he hastened to add her to his contacts.
A second text from her popped up. Sorry I haven't contacted you sooner, but things have been a bit crazy. Obviously. I heard what happened with Bucky today...
Yeah, Steve texted back. He was denied bail. He stared at his own text, trying to think of something more to say. But those words were like a wall in his mind. He couldn't move past them.
I'm so sorry to hear that, she said. I'm sure you were all hoping for a different outcome.
He doesn't deserve this, Steve replied, his thumbs moving faster as too many emotions began welling up in his heart. It's so obvious that he's innocent! They have nothing against him, nothing substantial, but they still want to lock him up and throw away the key. It's like they've already decided he's guilty.
A few moments passed before Sharon responded again. You sound like you could use a drink. And someone to talk to. I know a good place if you're interested. My treat.
His stomach tied itself in knots, and his heart made that flip-flopping sensation again, like a dying fish. More than anything, the thought of someone to talk to...someone who would listen, who hadn't heard everything he wanted to say already...that was so appealing.
So he responded by saying, Both of those sound amazing right now. Where can I meet you?
Steve got to the bar before Sharon, so he ordered a whiskey and sat at the bar, where she would easily be able to see him when she came through the door. He sipped his drink slowly while he waited, staring at the lights reflected in the amber liquid and trying not to think about anything.
But it wasn't so easy to banish the memory of Bucky in a prison uniform. Bucky, being led away by two policemen. Bucky, looking over his shoulder at him, silently begging to be rescued...
How could Steve sit here, calmly sipping at a good drink and waiting for a pretty lady to show up? He could only imagine what Bucky was facing at this very moment. It wasn't fair...
"She's not worth it."
Steve froze, his glass halfway to his mouth, and looked up in surprise. The bartender, who was wiping down the counter next to him, nodded at the mostly-full glass in Steve's hand. "You're in here at 1 p.m. and you're nursing that drink like it's apple juice. Gulp it down and get over her. She's not worth it."
Slowly, Steve lowered his glass. "I...really don't know what you're talking about..."
"Hey, Steve." He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Sharon standing next to him. "Been waiting long?"
Suddenly becoming aware that he'd been slouched over his drink, Steve straightened. "No, not long. Hi."
Sharon turned to the bartender, who'd been watching their exchange. "Rum and coke, please. Put us on the same check."
As he turned to get her drink, the bartender raised an eyebrow meaningfully at Steve.
Sharon glanced between the two of them. "What's up?"
Steve sighed and rubbed his eyes. "I think he assumes I'm drowning my sorrows over a girlfriend or something."
Sharon quirked an eyebrow. "Then what am I doing here?"
Steve shrugged with a half-hearted smile. "Maybe you're a rebound."
As disheartened as Steve still felt, he couldn't help appreciating how pretty Sharon looked when she smiled. She was dressed for a day spent in the office, but she'd rolled up the sleeves of her blue blouse. Her eyes sparkled in the warm light of the bar.
Once Sharon got her drink and Steve got a refill, they moved to a booth in the corner. For a few moments, they just sipped their drinks in silence.
"So?" Sharon finally asked. "How are you holding up? I'm sure it must have been hard to sit through all of that..."
And just like before, Steve looked into her warm, inviting eyes, and found himself spilling his guts. He told her all about the arguments that had been passed back and forth, and the frustrating outcome of the judge siding with the prosecutor even though the evidence Matt had given was so strong. He talked about how he had to just sit there, listening to all of this, unable to do anything to affect the outcome either way.
With a sigh, he shook his head. "I guess I'm just...not used to it. Having to sit back and watch when I know it's completely wrong. When I could see how scared Bucky was, but...I couldn't do anything. I couldn't even talk to him." He took a despondent gulp of his drink, feeling the burn in the back of his throat.
"I'm sorry, Steve," Sharon said softly. "None of this is fair, to either one of you."
"Especially for Bucky," Steve said, having to let go of his glass as his hands curled into frustrated fists. "He's been doing so well lately, but...in prison, he'll be surrounded by the worst of the worst. Every day he's there, he's in danger. What if he goes back to the way he was when I first found him? Jumping at everything, not trusting anyone... What if something in there reminds him of Hydra? What if it triggers him, and he panics or lashes out at someone? What if he gets into a fight, and he only has the one arm, so—"
"Steve." Her gentle voice broke through the rush of anxious words. She waited until he met her gaze, then continued. "I know it's hard, but worrying about it isn't going to do anything but make you miserable. Besides...everything you've told me about Bucky makes me believe that he's strong enough to make it through this. He's not going to be in prison forever. He won't even be there as long as Hydra had him, right? And you'll be there for him at the other end, just like before. You just have to be strong for him until then."
Steve couldn't find his voice, so he just nodded. In a moment of deja vu, he remembered another time he sat in a bar, trying to drink away the pain of losing Bucky, while another woman gently reminded him to be strong. At least this time, he knew he would see Bucky again.
He cleared his throat, trying out a shaky smile. "Thank you. And...sorry for just...dumping all of this on you."
But she shook her head. "It's good to vent sometimes. There's not much I can do to help you, but...at least I can listen. And I'm happy to do it again, whenever you need it."
Again. For some reason, she wanted to see him again, even though he hadn't really been the best company today. "Next time, you can talk my ear off. I promise."
"I really don't mind. I'm...honored. Thank you for trusting me." She gave him a smile that made his heart feel like a warm lump of butter.
Not knowing what to say, Steve drained the last of his drink. The whiskey burned down his throat, but of course there was none of the comforting buzz that used to accompany alcohol. "You know," he murmured, "drowning my sorrows used to be a lot more fun when I could get drunk."
He could almost hear what Bucky would say if he were here. Oh, really? You mean back when drinking half a glass would leave you puking your guts out in the alleyway? Or are you talking about when you'd try to protect a girl from some creep and then get knocked out in a single hit and I'd have to carry you home? Yeah, real fun.
Sharon just said mildly, "Well, at least you won't get a hangover. And I don't have to worry about you driving home under the influence."
"Both good points." The smile that stretched across his face felt much more natural this time.
Once Sharon had paid, they lingered outside the door to say goodbye. It seemed garishly bright on the sidewalk after the dim interior of the bar; Steve was almost surprised to remember that it was still afternoon. Clearing his throat, he turned to Sharon. "Thank you. I...I had a good time." No, that didn't sound like an accurate description of their depressing conversation. "I mean, I...appreciate..."
"I'm glad we did this too," Sharon said, before he could stumble to the end of his awkward sentence.
His mouth felt strangely dry. "Um...I know you probably have to head back to Berlin soon, but...if there's ever another time you're in town...maybe you'd...like to do dinner?"
"Yes," she said with a bright smile. "I'd love to."
Steve tried not to feel too guilty about how light his heart felt now.
The trip back to Rikers passed in a blur. Bucky did what he was told, shuffled along at the end of a chain of other prisoners who had been at the courthouse that morning, kept his head down, and didn't say a word.
He barely paid attention to anything happening around him, because it took all of his concentration just to breathe. For a while, he thought the ache in his chest was just the longing to go back home with Steve, to feel those warm arms around him and try to forget about the trial for a little while at least. But as they got closer and closer to the prison and his chest only hurt more and more, he realized it was an impending panic attack.
But he couldn't fall to pieces now. That simply wasn't an option. So he surreptitiously fought to keep his breathing steady, using every technique Sam had taught him. He breathed in, counted to ten, then let his breath out again. He clenched his one hand into a fist, then relaxed it again with each breath. He stared at the wall, at the floor, counting tiles and scratches. He looked at his own forearm and counted the scars, trying to imagine Steve running a finger over each one. He tried to remember every time Steve had bandaged his cuts or rubbed lotion into the rough skin.
And he refused to let his mind stray to the future. He wouldn't think about the trial, he wouldn't worry about how Steve was taking this turn of events, and he wouldn't wonder how many days he would have to endure in prison. Tomorrow was another day, and he could worry about it then. For now, he just needed to keep himself under control. He couldn't cry or show fear, no matter how much he wanted to. That would be seen as a weakness, and in a place like Rikers...that would be the end of him.
So he just needed to breathe. Endure. He could do this. He would.
Bucky felt almost calm by the time he was led back down the long, empty hallway to the cell block he'd been in before. He took a deep breath as the door opened with a loud buzz. The guard uncuffed his hand, took the chain from around his waist, and closed the door behind him.
He found himself the center of attention. Everyone had heard the door, and it felt like everyone in the entire room was staring at him. But that was paranoia, surely. Already, people were returning to their conversations or the TV or their games of checkers.
"Well, lookee who it is!" cackled an old man at the nearest table, grinning wide enough to reveal that he only had four teeth left. "Our very own, gen-you-wine celebrity!"
The other men at his table looked up from their card game. "We seen you on TV, dude!" one of them called.
"You really blew up the U.N.?" another said. He was grinning, like it was all a huge joke.
Bucky walked past them without answering, feeling his anxiety ramp up all over again. He wanted nothing more than to make a beeline for his cell and curl up on his bunk, as uncomfortable as it was. He wanted to shut his eyes and sleep, to just forget all about the new reality he faced. But a glance showed him that Brad stood in the doorway of their cell, talking with someone. He didn't really want to come face-to-face with Brad again until he absolutely had to.
So he headed towards the TV, hoping to just find a seat and fade out of everyone's scrutiny. But when he got closer, he caught the attention of a group of men Bucky had noticed were hanging around Brad the day before. One man nudged his companion and called out in a carrying voice, "Hey, boys, look—it's the Winter Soldier!"
The whole group looked at him with smirks and jeering grins. A few of them called out mockingly, "Hail Hydra!" One of them pushed up the sleeve of his undershirt, displaying a swastika tattooed on his muscular shoulder.
Bucky stood rooted to the spot, staring at them. His stomach lurched at the sound of those words, dark memories scratching at the edges of his control. Other times he'd been this frightened, surrounded by chaotic noise and mocking laughter, and they'd beaten him until he said those hateful words...
Taking a deep breath, Bucky turned on his heel and walked away from them. They laughed and yelled other mocking, spiteful things at him...but that was it. That was all they could do. No matter what they said, they weren't his Hydra handlers. They couldn't beat him with whips and iron bars, they couldn't chain him to a wall, they couldn't shove him into the Chair, they couldn't make him do anything against his will.
This was Rikers Correctional Facility. It was a horrible place, and he wished with all his might that he didn't have to spend another hour here. But it was still better than anything and everything Hydra had put him through.
That was the thought he clung to with all his might. It was better than Hydra. And he'd survived Hydra. He'd faced Crossbones; he'd fought and killed him. So he could deal with anything that Brad or any of the others had in store for him. After Crossbones and Zola and Pierce and all the other horrible people he'd encountered in Hydra, even the worst people in this jail were just small-time bullies.
Bucky kept telling himself that through the rest of the day. He could still feel the panic attack waiting in the wings, so he just ended up pacing around and around the lowest level. It was all he could do to expel enough of his nervous energy to keep from crumbling completely.
Periodically, he would pass by someone who would call out another comment to him. Rumors spread like wildfire, it seemed; soon, every man in the place knew exactly who he was and what he'd supposedly done. Some people shied away from him when they saw him coming, refusing to meet his eyes. Others seemed to think it was hilarious that the fearsome Winter Soldier was amongst the lowlifes of Rikers, with only a single arm and apparently no desire to pick a fight. Still others glared at him with undisguised disdain and anger; Brad was one of the latter.
When a guard opened the door and called his name, Bucky had to use all of his willpower to keep himself from breaking into a run to get out of there. He didn't even care that he had to get cuffed and taken to a room to be strip-searched all over again; he just wanted to get away from all that scrutiny.
Bucky's relief was so great that he didn't even have time to be surprised he was getting a visitor so soon, until he was walking down the hallway to the same room he'd gone to before. And just like before, his heart swelled with painful hope, only to instantly deflate again when he saw that the man waiting for him in the visitation room was Matt, rather than Steve.
Glancing at the clock on the wall, Bucky saw that it was still the middle of the afternoon. This day felt like it had lasted a week, at least.
After they'd shaken hands and sat down on either side of the table, Bucky let out a shaky sigh of relief. When he did, all the tears he'd been holding back seemed to well up at once and prickle at his eyes. He caught his breath, trying to keep his composure.
Matt took off his sunglasses and leaned forward a little. Though his eyes didn't meet Bucky's, they bore an expression of genuine sympathy as he said, "Bucky, first of all I want to say that I'm sorry—"
"No," Bucky croaked, squeezing the bridge of his nose hard and trying to push the tears back. "You were...great. Amazing. I-I'm okay, I just..."
"Take a minute," Matt said gently. "Take as long as you need. Sounds like you need it."
He barely knew Matt. He'd only met him the day before. But this was the first time in what felt like a year that he'd actually spoken to someone who was on his side. Someone who seemed to care what he was going through.
So he let down the fragile walls he'd been carefully building ever since he'd set foot in Rikers. His shoulders drooped, and he slowly bent down till his forehead rested on his arm. He squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on breathing but not trying to stop the tears anymore. He let them flow, sniffling quietly as he let out all the pent-up stress and anxiety.
Matt just sat there, not speaking or fidgeting with impatience, and for that Bucky was infinitely grateful. Normally, he would be extremely embarrassed to break down like this in front of someone who was practically a stranger, but Matt felt...safe. Anyone would feel safe compared to his fellow inmates here, but Bucky got the impression that somehow, Matt just...understood. Like he knew exactly what Bucky was feeling, and what he needed most right now. Bucky was probably just being overly emotional, but there was something in Matt's quiet acceptance that reminded him of Steve.
Finally, the tears slowed down and Bucky pushed himself upright again, scrubbing his sleeve across his face. Matt, whose head was tilted in a listening posture, handed over a packet of tissues, which Bucky gratefully accepted.
"I wish I could get Steve in here to be with you," he murmured. "Without the barriers."
Sniffling, Bucky smiled miserably and shook his head. "Nah. It's probably for the best. If he was here right now...I wouldn't be able to let him go." His eyes burned again, but he cleared his throat and sat straighter, forcing himself to focus. "But...I doubt you came all the way down here just for this."
"Well, no," Matt admitted. "I wanted to talk to you about the outcome of the hearing today, and where we go from here."
Bucky nodded, sniffling one last time. "Okay."
Matt clasped his hands together, his eyes pointed towards the table but his expression still kind and understanding. "Now, I know it wasn't what we hoped for, but I want to remind you that the fight is far from over. Just because you've been denied bail doesn't mean you're convicted of anything."
"Yeah, I know," he said heavily. "When's the trial going to be?"
"That hasn't been decided yet. First, we need to take care of what we call discovery, where both sides exchange the evidence and witnesses that we'll be using in the trial." He smiled slightly. "And as I'm sure you already know, they'll have a hard time finding anything incriminating."
Bucky rubbed a nervous hand up and down his thigh. "Do you think you've got enough evidence to prove I'm innocent?" Matt had made such a strong argument that morning...but not even that had seemed to convince the judge.
"I don't need to prove your innocence," Matt said calmly. "It's the prosecution's job to prove guilt. All we have to do is demonstrate a reasonable doubt. Honestly, I got off easy. I don't envy Kenneth Gates having to maintain that there's anything reasonable in this case. Which is why I'm entering a motion to dismiss your case as soon as possible."
Bucky blinked in surprise. Granted, he didn't know much about the intricacies of how the legal system worked, but that seemed a rather bold move to him. "You mean...make them just...drop the charges? Will that work?"
Matt shrugged. "We'll have to see. If Judge Alito denies our motion, that just means you'll have to wait a little longer. But if we do go on to trial, that means we'll have twelve more people to hear how ludicrous these charges are. You will be going home, Bucky. I have every confidence in that."
As the guard took Bucky back to the cell block a few minutes later, Bucky felt the dread rising in his gut again. To push it down and keep the panic at bay, he just focused on the memory of Matt saying those words. He thought of the quiet fire burning in those blind eyes, and he knew he could make it another day.
You will be going home.
You will be.
You will.
The trip to Rikers Island was depressing, to put it mildly. Steve knew he probably wasn't being fair to the people running the jail, but he felt like every step of the process was designed to discourage him from visiting Bucky as much as possible.
First, he had to drive into New York City and find a place to park so he could catch the bus that would take him straight to Rikers Island. That bus ride took him from the bustling streets and crowds of the city, across a long bridge to the prison sprawling over the entire expanse of the island. As Steve sat in the quiet bus with the other visitors, he watched the prison buildings grow closer and closer.
Every building looked the same: drab and forbidding, surrounded by concrete walls and barbed wire. He didn't know what purpose any of them served, and he found himself scanning the buildings as if he'd be able to figure out which one Bucky was in right now.
Finally, the bus pulled to a stop inside the fence and the doors swung open. A uniformed officer stepped inside and planted himself in the aisle, barking out reminders to everyone about visitation rules and what items would be considered contraband if they were brought in. There was something reminiscent of a drill sergeant about this man.
Steve had already read through the rules and made sure he wasn't breaking any of them; he wasn't going to do anything that would jeopardize his chance to see Bucky today. Unfortunately, that had meant he had to take off the chain with his dog tags and Bucky's ring. To be on the safe side, he'd left his own ring behind as well.
Once the officer was finished, he led the way into the building, where they all had to begin the arduous security process. Since this was his first visit, Steve had to fill out paperwork, have his fingerprints taken, and wait what seemed like an inordinate amount of time for the lady at the front desk to approve everything. At last, he was able to follow the slow-moving line through the metal detectors, past the sniffer dogs, and into a room full of battered little lockers where they could stow their valuables. The only thing Steve had brought was his wallet, so it didn't take long before he sat in the next waiting room.
As he waited with everyone else who had been on the bus with him, Steve looked around the room. The cold, off-white walls were covered in nothing but notices and warnings about the rules they were to follow. There were no less than three security cameras in this room, scrutinizing everything they did. Glancing around at the people waiting in the hard, uncomfortable chairs around him, Steve noted the hunched shoulders, the nervous glances at the clock, the hushed conversations. It was hard not to feel like, if any of them made one wrong move, they would end up staying here for good instead of going back home at the end of the day.
At long last, the officer from before marched into the room and ushered them out of the building again. They boarded another bus for a brief trip to a different building, went through another metal detector, and then sat in another waiting room. One by one, names were called and visitors would follow an officer out of the room in ones and twos.
It wasn't until the officer stepped back into the room and called out, "James Barnes!" that he realized the names were of the inmates, not the visitors. Steve followed the officer down a short hallway into a long room with a row of chairs in front of a counter, with little partitions in between each one for a modicum of privacy. As Steve walked down the line, he saw other visitors sitting there, each talking into a telephone. On the other side of a thick wall of glass sat the inmates, also using a telephone to talk to their loved ones.
The officer gestured to an empty chair, and as Steve approached it, he couldn't keep from smiling. Bucky was right there, sitting on the other side of the glass, waiting for him. Their eyes met, and Bucky's face immediately softened into a grin of his own.
Steve couldn't sit down and grab the receiver fast enough. "Hey, Buck. How are you?"
Bucky's voice was a little muffled on the other end of the phone. "Better now that you're here."
Everything was so different from the way it should have been. Bucky was wearing a garish orange prison uniform, and one of his sleeves hung loose and empty. He was on the other side of a wall of glass, rather than in Steve's arms. He couldn't give Bucky a hug or hold his hand, like he had in London. He couldn't even hear his voice without the distance of a telephone line.
But he could look at him through the glass and know that he was right there. He could do his very best to remind and reassure Bucky that he was still here for him, no matter what.
That would have to be enough for now.
Steve looked earnestly into Bucky's eyes. "All quiet on the Western front?"
Bucky shrugged lopsidedly. "Yeah, actually. There's so much happening around me that I have to pay attention to, I guess I don't really have room to think about anything else."
"That's...good, I guess?"
Slowly, a grin spread across Bucky's face, as though he'd just remembered something. "Hey, speaking of...guess what my cellmate's name is? Brad."
Steve froze for a moment in disbelief, and then they both burst out laughing. It was half-hearted, almost painful laughter, a sign that they were both desperately grasping for any shred of levity they could find in their depressing new reality.
But at least they could still laugh together. Steve clung to that thought as they continued their conversation. Right now, it was all they had.
When their laughter died down, Bucky asked, "How's Jake doing?"
"He's good." Steve chuckled. "I swear he's grown an inch since we went to London."
"Wish I could see him," Bucky said wistfully.
"I wish you could too." How tall would Jake be by the time Bucky got out? He would be so timid and shy around Bucky when he first came home. They might have to start over from square one. "I tried explaining all of this to him, but I'm not sure how well he understood."
Silence fell between them as Steve searched for something to say that wasn't completely depressing or full of false cheer. He looked at Bucky, running his gaze over every familiar inch of him...and then he realized that Bucky was doing the same to him. Their eyes met, and they both laughed a little sheepishly.
"I don't really know what to talk about," Steve admitted.
"I don't care what we talk about," Bucky said quietly. "Just...something that's not here."
"Okay." Steve thought for a moment more, then started talking about their preparations for the move. Most of the decisions were ones he'd already discussed with Bucky, but he talked through each one in detail anyway, just to have something to say.
Bucky didn't say much, but he sat there with a small smile, listening to everything Steve had to say. For a few minutes, they were almost able to forget where they were. It was just the two of them, discussing their plans for the future.
Just like always.
The Lord is a stronghold for the oppressed,
a stronghold in times of trouble.
And those who know your name put their trust in you,
for you, O Lord, have not forsaken those who seek you.
- Psalm 9:9-10